A Difficult Person to Find a Flatmate for
by thetravelinglemon
Summary: Slight AU. Scenes from episodes slightly rewritten - how would things have been different if Mike brought Sherlock to the lab to meet John rather than the other way round? Due to long chapters and lack of inspiration, updates are very infrequent - sorry!
1. Chapter 1

**I wrote all this in the notes section of my phone before typing it up (because carrying a laptop around in your pocket in case you get sudden fanfic inspiration is not practical). I don't know which other scenes I could rewrite (apart from where they meet at 221B) so any suggestions would be good.**

Sherlock followed Mike Stamford through the corridors, memorising the route for when he left. He'd been told by security that he needed to be accompanied by a doctor before they could let him use he labs, so was pleased when he glimpsed Mike over the street walking towards Bart's. He vaguely regretted seeing Mike, since he insisted on talking the whole time, but Sherlock supposed he could put up with it if it meant he could use the lab. He blinked when he realised Mike had asked him a question. Luckily for Sherlock, Mike repeated himself.

"Are you still living in that rundown apartment?"

"Mm."

"Can't you move? Get some help or something – what about your family? It can't be good for you, that place."

"Can't afford to move. Not asking family."

"Get a flatmate or something then – you really should move."

"I imagine I'd be rather a difficult person to find a flatmate for." Mike grinned.

"You're the second person to say that to me today." He paused before abruptly changing direction, making Sherlock frown.

"What about the lab?"

"We'll go to a different one; see if he's there today."

...

John briefly glanced up as Mike entered the lab, before he looked back down at the microscope. He couldn't talk immediately, and Mike would wait. John frowned as he heard another pair of footsteps, but he refrained from looking up until he had got the result and taken the notes he needed.

Then he looked up, glancing briefly at the stranger before asking:

"Mike, can you pass me my phone?"

"Here." The tall, dark-haired stranger held out John's phone to him.

"Oh, thank you." John took the phone and sent a quick text to a colleague with the results of the test.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Er Afghanistan...how did you know?" At that moment Molly walked in holding a mug of tea. She passed it to John whilst staring at the stranger. "Ah thanks Molly." John sipped the tea and winced. "I don't take sugar." Molly nodded absently while continuing to stare at the stranger. John cleared his throat.

"Oh sorry I should leave you to it, sorry." Molly hastened from the room.

"How do you feel about the violin?"

"I'm sorry?"

"You really should be, your hearing's atrocious. I said how do you feel about the violin? I often play when I'm thinking, sometimes I don't talk for days on end – would that bother you?" This time John just looked at Sherlock without speaking, but Sherlock still quirked an eyebrow and responded to the unspoken question. "Mike brought me here because I need a flatmate and he said that someone else had mentioned that to him today as well; obviously you – not a difficult leap to make." John frowned.

"So we've only just met and we're going to go look at a flat together?"

"Problem?"

"We don't know a thing about each other, I don't even know your name."

"I know you're an army doctor invalidated from service about six months ago. You've got a job at Bart's a psychosomatic limp and, therefore, a therapist. You job is only part time and even with that and your army pension you can't afford London, so you need a flat-share. You won't go to your brother for help, possibly because he just walked out on his wife; maybe you liked his wife, maybe you didn't like his drinking. I think that's enough to be going on, don't you?" John was speechless, and Sherlock barely gave him time to recover before holding out his hand for John to shake. "Sherlock Holmes." John took the offered hand and cleared his throat.

"John Watson. Meet me outside 221B Baker Street at one tomorrow. Now excuse me I have a patient to see to." John made his way towards the door, calling "Afternoon" to Mike before leaving. Sherlock stared at the door briefly before smirking and going over to the microscope.

John tried to regulate his breathing as he walked down the corridor. He had a feeling Sherlock Holmes would be no ordinary flatmate.


	2. Chapter 2

**Wow this fic is popular – I never expected that level of response, thank you. Please suggest scenes or events I could swap round since I haven't planned any others after this one. I might just have to watch the series again and see if that helps – any excuse to watch Sherlock! Enjoy this chapter anyway.**

Sherlock climbed out of a taxi, having paid the fare, and glanced round before striding towards the door marked 221B. He couldn't deduce much from the front door except that it was well kept and respectable. He turned again to see John limping towards him, using a crutch for support. Sherlock held out his hand for John to shake (he understood it was polite, and he _did_ want to make a good impression, since it seemed that John Watson actually wanted to give things a go).

"Dr Watson."

"John, please." Sherlock inclined his head in recognition of the statement, before John leant forward and knocked on the door.

"I would've thought this area would be a bit expensive for a partially retired army doctor."

"Yes, well, I know the landlady, Mrs Hudson. She, urm, suffered an abusive marriage and I supported her until her husband died...well, was killed I suppose." Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "He got himself sentenced to death in Florida." Sherlock nodded, and at that moment the door opened.

"John." Mrs Hudson smiled and pulled John into a hug.

"It's nice to see you Mrs Hudson, how's that hip?"

"Not too bad dear, thanks for asking." Mrs Hudson moved aside to let John and Sherlock inside.

"Mrs Hudson, this is Sherlock Holmes."

"Ah yes, John mentioned you." Before Sherlock could offer her his hand, she pulled him into a brief hug. He froze, unsure what to do, but before he had a chance to decide, Mrs Hudson had released him and was gesturing for him to precede her up the stairs.

John began to lead the way upstairs, though slowly because of his limp. When they reached the room at the top of the stairs, John stopped and went to stand by the window as Sherlock glanced around. He saw signs of recent inhabitancy but, since there were no personal belongings about that could belong to John, he assumed it was the previous tenant who had only recently moved out.

"This is sufficient."

"Good. I thought it was nice too..."

"But I presume it will become filled with pointless personal belongings." interrupted Sherlock.

"...so I went ahead and moved in." continued John.

There was a moment's silence as both men processed what the other had said. John cleared his throat and spoke first:

"Well I don't exactly have many personal belongings; after spending so long in the army, you learn to travel light."

"So what do you think Mr Holmes? There's another bedroom upstairs, if you'll be needing two bedrooms."

"Of course we'll be needing two bedrooms." replied Sherlock.

"Oh don't worry dear," she turned to Sherlock. "we get all sorts around here; Mrs Turner next door's got married ones." John frowned at that.

"I'm not gay." Though Mrs Hudson was already half way down the stairs, so didn't hear John's protests. John sighed in exasperation and plonked himself down in his chair, gesturing for Sherlock to sit down in the other one. Sherlock nodded but instead went to stand by the window, pulling out his phone to send a text:

_New accommodation at 221B Baker Street – will be here when you need to contact me. SH_

Mrs Hudson came back into the flat and handed John a boring-looking letter.

"That just came for you John. But remember I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper." John nodded as Mrs Hudson wandered into the kitchen to put the kettle on, despite her protestations. "Oh John, you could at least make it feel like a home – you've barely even got any food." John just shrugged and picked up the paper, frowning at the report on the serial suicides and muttering.

"Three suicides...terrible..."

"Four."

"I'm sorry?"

"There's been a fourth." John frowned as he heard a polite knock on the door, followed by a clicking of the lock, and someone running up the stairs into the flat. Both John and Mrs Hudson looked suspiciously at the newcomer, who shot them a briefly apologetic look for picking their lock, before he turned to Sherlock.

"Where is it?"

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens."

"What's different this time? You wouldn't have come if something wasn't different."

"You know how they never leave notes? Well this one did. Will you come?"

"Who's on forensics?"

"Anderson."

"Anderson won't work with me."

"Well he won't be your assistant."

"I need an assistant."

John and Mrs Hudson watched this exchange silently, but with growing confusion. Who was this man demanding Sherlock's help with the suicides? Why did he think Sherlock could help? How did Sherlock know about the fourth suicide before it had even been mentioned? Who was Anderson? And what did Sherlock do that required an assistant? All these questions flashed through their minds in the space of a few seconds, and all of them remained unanswered.

"Will you come?"

"Not in a police car, I'll be right behind you." The stranger nodded and left quickly. There was a moment's silence before Sherlock jumped in the air, shouting:

"Brilliant! Oh yes! Four serial suicides and now a note; oh it's Christmas!" John was horrified. How could any sane person get excited about loss of life? Had he brought a psychopath into his flat? He glanced at Mrs Hudson, looking worried, and she frowned at Sherlock before glancing at John. Sherlock just continued, oblivious. "Nice to you meet you, and I'll take the flat, don't wait up for me." He sped out the door.

There was a moment's silence before Mrs Hudson came in with John's tea. "He's like my husband; can't sit still, but you're more the sitting down type like me; you rest that leg now..."

"Damn my leg!" Mrs Hudson jumped away in fright. "Oh, sorry, sorry, it's just..."

"I understand dear; I've got a hip." Mrs Hudson said as she went back into the kitchen.

"You were an army doctor." Sherlock's voice suddenly resounded in the flat, and John looked over to the doorway. "Any good?"

"Very good."

"So you've seen a lot of violent deaths then?"

"Yes. Enough to last a lifetime."

"Want to see some more?"

"G..."

Mrs Hudson interrupted. "Go on both of you, I can tell you're itching to go, though it's not decent."

Sherlock grinned and grabbed John's arm, pulling him out the flat. "Who cares about decent: the game is on!"

**Sorry for the delay – I wrote most of this and then didn't know what to write next, so left it for a bit. But please review with suggestions anyway – otherwise there might be no more chapters. Going on holiday now – no internet or phone signal for two weeks. Great (!)**


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